“Will he find us?” I wonder aloud.
Ambrose’s shoulders lift and fall, and his longer strands of hair touch them.
Taking bigger sections and brushing off clinging snowflakes, I ask, “Can I play with your hair?”
He nods, his face sad.
“I used to feel happy when Mom would do my hair.”
Paying me little attention, his bare feet land in deep snow below us, and he hisses. Giant steps take us farther away, and Chuckles’ voice fades out.
Ambrose’s chest pounds against me, his breathing heavy in my ears as we move.
His hair sticks to his face. I peel it back with sticky hands. I’m freezing but sweating. Mommy always said her hands got sweaty when she was nervous. A twinge of excitement crawls over me. I might see her and Daddy today.
That feeling disappears quickly, and my nerves return…because I might not.
It’s a struggle now to see Chuckles’ house in the distance. It’s getting smaller and smaller.
The house doesn’t look scary from here, where the long grass peeps through the snow and tickles my feet. With a white picket fence, blending in with the snow, and the neighboring rooftops peeping over snowy hills nearby, the place we leave behind doesn’t look like a monster’s home.
It looks quiet and new, and there’s the sound of children playing in the distance.
“There’s a playground over there.” I tuck my face into Ambrose’s neck, so close that the only thing I see is the sheen on his glistening skin. The cold holds onto him. His scars pull tighter as he cranes his neck to see other children running around the swings that look so small from here, throwing snowballs at each other.
His hold grows tighter, his feet still moving fast in a direction that’s both away from the house and the playground.
I keep my legs locked around his waist as we run away from the graying clouds surrounding Chuckles’ home and casting shadows.
It looks a little creepier now.
A shiver runs down my back, and Ambrose’s fingers brush it away.
His breathing picks up as we make it to the road, more houses scattered in the distance.
My breathing picks up and matches my brother’s, seeing a vehicle’s lights cut through the mist.
“Strangers.” All my fear shows in my strangled voice.
“Hey!” The owner of the voice is somewhere between a man and a boy. His face is young, but his hand, tapping on the side of the truck, is huge. Those fingers could close around our tiny throats, and those big arms scream of his strength.
The braid I’ve been working on in Ambrose’s hair slips from my fingers, but I find another dark clump of hair to soothe myself as I stare at the guy who leans out of the passenger side window.
“Run faster.” My whisper kisses Ambrose’s neck.
He nods in agreement, feeling me tremble in his arms.
“We don’t know them. They could be bad. We can’t talk to anyone who isn’t Mommy or Daddy.” I’ll never do it again and make Ambrose mad like last time.
An almost silent sob comes from my brother.
“Right?”
His fingers close and then splay, speaking silently to me.
The truck pulls in front of us, and my brother slams to a stop. The only parts of him moving are chattering teeth and the heart hitting my ribs every time it pounds. I pivot enough to see his wide eyes behind strands of his hair.
“Hey, you guys need some help?” the guy with big arms calls out to us again, and he has the voice to match. He jumps from the truck, his heavy boots leaving prints in the snow as he steps forward. Each step is so loud to me, worse than the roaring engine. I tuck myself back into Ambrose and cover my ears.
